‘And until then, I must just depend on those Parliament old women, mustn’t I?’ Warwick said waspishly. His face and neck had grown flushed as he realized how much Derry Brewer knew of his arrangements. ‘Just as I depend on you, Brewer, to tell me where York and Gloucester have hidden themselves – then to reach out and strike at them.’
Derry used his one good eye to effect, knowing that it had a piercing quality. He stared until Warwick looked back into the depths of his own mug.
‘You used to have a … gentleman’s approach to such things, my lord. A restraint. I admired it in you then.’
‘Yes? Well, I have been attainted and my father was killed, Brewer. I am not as green, now, nor as patient. I want to see an ending – and I do not care how Edward of York is brought
down. If he falls from a horse or is stabbed by his mistress, I will be as pleased. Take what chances you can. If he returns to England, nothing after that will be certain. Do you understand? I fought at his side at Towton, Brewer. I know the man. If we cannot stop him before he plants his flag, all we have won can be torn away. All.’
Derry Brewer grimaced to himself as he drained yet another mug of the fine brown ale, feeling his senses swim. He had men in France and Flanders, looking for some sign of the brothers of York. There were a dozen rumours, but the pigeons had all been sent and had to be shipped back to the Continent. It all took time and he could not escape the sense that the hourglass had already been thrown against a wall. The sea was vast, so that entire fleets were no more than splinters against that watery deep. The Continent was dark and endless, even with the spies reporting back for King Louis. Belching, Derry placed his mug down and nodded to Warwick, rising to his feet to head out into the darkness and the rain.
Daw looked over the grey sea, with the sun setting behind him. It was his favourite time of day, when gold and slate mingled in great bands across the waves, a pattern stretching into the far distance and all flecked with white. He was alone on his hill, as always. He’d kept a one-eyed dog up there for company for a while, but the village butcher had told everyone about it and they’d all said he couldn’t be trusted to keep an eye out if he was playing with his hound. They’d made him leave the animal at home and then of course it had gone, vanished like morning dew. His mam had said the animal had just skittered out of the door and never come back, but Daw had an idea the butcher had taken him for those horrible little pies he sold at market day. The man called him Jack
Daw and always laughed when he did, like it was clever. Daw was short for David, that was all. He liked Daw. He might have liked Jack Daw if it hadn’t been the butcher who’d come up with it.
He sighed to himself. He was fourteen years old and his leg was too twisted to do a man’s work for his food, that was what they all said. All he could do was stand still and stare until someone slapped him out of it, so they’d shown him the hill watch and the tiny hut up there for when it rained. He pissed into the bracken and emptied his bowels in a little pit not far off, with a nice slender ash tree to hold on to as he dipped down. At midday, his mam would bring him a few boiled eggs, or a bit of meat and bread, whatever she’d left over – and at the end of the month, the local merchants paid his mother for his labour. It was not such a bad life, he had come to accept. In the summer, others came up the hill on fine days, to enjoy the sun on their faces and the view. He hated those times and those people, standing on his shadow, as he liked to mutter to himself. It was bad enough when the widow Jenkins came stumping up to take the night shift on the hill, but all they ever did was exchange a nod. In two years, she hadn’t said a word to him and that was fine. He’d been alone so long, he knew no other way.
His mam said there were boys and simpletons on hilltops all the way down the coast, stretching further than he could even see. Daw wasn’t sure whether he could believe her when she rattled off the names of towns he’d never known and would never visit. They were far-off places and he could not even imagine the fine people who lived in cities and knew stone houses and wide roads. Sometimes he dreamed of going south to see the others of his kind, imagining himself all weather-tanned and healthy like, just walking up and exchanging a nod with them, like equals. It always made him
smile, though he knew he never would. No, he’d spend his life in all weathers and he’d watch the leaves grow green and then gold each year. He knew his hill better than anyone alive already and he’d come to love it in his observation, just as he loved the sea beyond with all its moods and colours.
With care, he stuck a tiny piece of pork fat to a branch, stepping away so carefully he made hardly any sound at all. He looked up into the chestnut tree for the red squirrel who made its home somewhere high above him. Each day he’d been tempting the animal closer, trying nuts and a dab of honey, anything he could snatch from his mother’s kitchen. He had high hopes for pork fat. Everyone liked that.
He stepped back and turned away to sweep his gaze across the horizon – and froze. In an instant, he had forgotten the squirrel. He ran forward to the very edge of the cliff, shading his eyes though the sun was weak.
Ships. Out there on the grey, each as long as one of his fingers. He’d been standing in that spot in winter and summer for two years, with two more before that when he was the apprentice to Jim Saddler. The old man had resented his failing eyesight – and the boy who would replace him. He’d beaten Daw too many times to remember them all, but he’d taught him to read flags and banners and he’d taught him about Viking ships and how they were rowed or sailed and how French ships looked and the sort of colours they flew. Old Jim was in the ground a year, but Daw’s mind flickered as he stared at them, counting and remembering. Not merchants, clustering together for safety on the deep. Not English ships. Not one or two, but a veritable fleet, more than thirty, on his oath.
Daw looked at the huge pile of wood some forty yards away from his little hut. It was part of his work to take it
apart and rebuild it each week, to keep the wood dry. He had tarpaulins to pull over it in the storms, tying it all down. He knew it would light and that he had to move, but still he just stared, back and forth, fleet to bonfire.
He shook himself awake, muttering curses under his breath. The oil lamp was lit in his shed, thank God! His first task of the day and he had not shirked it on a cold morning, when he could have the pleasure of pressing his hands against the warming glass until it was too hot to hold. He snatched it up from its shelf with a sheaf of tapers, racing back to the bonfire. He went down on his hands and knees to insert the burning wands, blowing on them and stuffing in dry moss until the fire began to take hold. Flames wrapped around the balanced sticks like maypole ribbons of red, beginning to crackle and boil the sap still deep in the wood. When Daw was certain it was well set, he ran back to his hut and snatched up handfuls of tall green ferns, dumping them on the inferno to create a stream of grey smoke, hundreds of feet above his head.
He stood then, with his hands on his hips, realizing he was panting and staring at the enemy fleet crossing the North Sea along the English coast. He did not look round when a warning horn sounded in the village below, though he could imagine the butcher’s cheeks growing red as he forced his breath down it. Daw grinned at the thought and then he became aware of another prickle of light.
He turned, his eyes widening. Along the coast, further than he had ever gone, another bonfire had been lit. Even as he stared, he saw an even more distant point of light twinkle. He spun in place and his mouth opened further at the sight of another gleam some dozen miles away. Men and boys like himself, who were answering the warning, carrying it further. He could only see a tiny number, but Daw had a vision
that left him gasping, of the bonfires spreading right along the coast, carrying his word. For an instant, he was afraid, but pride forced out the sense of worry. He smiled and wished his dog could have been there.
Edward had been watching the coast slide by, miles away on the larboard side, with a sort of desperate longing. He had tried not to think of England in his months of exile. There had been no point to it while he was banished and unable to return. Yet then, with the chalk hills fading into brown and green, with the great curving cliffs speaking to something in his blood, he could only stare and hope.
A point of light showed, on a high chalk hill. From so far away, it was no brighter than a single torch perhaps. Yet as he watched, a line of them came into existence, one by one like bright beads on a thread, making a chain. It was a strange thing to think of the men at each one, setting the fires, warning that there were ships out, threatening the coast. Edward could see the sun setting behind the line. It would not be long before they were like drops of amber on black velvet. He looked up at the mast overhead.
‘Captain! Put up my colours! The Sun in Flames, if you please. Let them see I am returned.’
It took a little time to find the enormous banner in the signal chest, but Duke Charles knew him well and it was there. The roll of embroidered cloth was attached to signal ropes and run up high on the mast, snapping out overhead. Edward heard cheers go up from the ships around him, spreading from one to another as they spotted his colours flying. He smiled as his brother Richard came out of the hold in a clatter, almost falling on to the deck in his rush.
‘They know we are here now,’ Edward said, sweeping his hand across the line of lights. How far would it go south
before some rider carried the news inland? Or were there men racing already, galloping through narrow lanes to be first to reach King Henry in London?
His brother Richard looked up at the Sun in Flames and laughed.
‘Good! Let them be afraid! They chased us out and that dishonour will not stand, Brother. Not for sons of York. Let the fires burn. We will not stop until there are just ashes left.’
They anchored off Cromer on the east coast of England that night, sending boat-crews in to hire horses and find friends. Edward and Richard dined together with Rivers and Baron Say aboard the
Mark Antony
, waiting for news. For the first time in months, they could gather word from their supporters without the sense of being behind events, or worse, that someone else would intercept and read their messages. Pigeons coming in from Flanders did not always fare well. Falconry and archery were obsessions in most English villages. Codes could be broken. Sometimes, the only safe way was to stand in a man’s presence and ask him what he knew.
The following dawn was a nervous time for the entire fleet. Only a few ships had dared to come in close, so the rest beat up and down in constant labour, waiting for word to come back or some sign of a pursuing fleet surging up from the Channel to the south. It did not help that bonfires still smoked that dawn, replenished and rebuilt along the coast, as far as anyone could see in the haze. Thousands came out to stand and stare on the beaches, shivering in the cold while they watched the banners of York and knew King Edward had not gone quietly into exile.
Some hours after noon, the ship’s Flemish captain reported seeing the signal flag. He sent a boat at great speed before their man could be killed on the beach by those who had seen him waving to the ships. It was a close-run thing and he arrived before Edward and Richard of Gloucester with a black eye and a broken lip.
Edward laid aside his plate and offered the man a cup of wine for his trouble.
‘What did you learn, Sir Gilbert?’ he said. Only the thick fingers twitching at the table’s cloth showed how important he considered the answer.
‘Your Highness, I bear the sealed word of Thomas Rotheram, Bishop of Rochester.’ The knight handed over a ribbon sealed with a wax disc, containing a scrawled name in the seal as proof. ‘He swears his allegiance, but he says Your Highness must not land in Cromer. The Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk have been imprisoned on the orders of Warwick, when they would not take an oath to … Henry of Lancaster.’ Sir Gilbert Debenham was careful not to refer to ‘King Henry’ in that company.
Edward winced, working his tongue into the spot where his back teeth had been drawn, a memory of great pain followed by two days of a sweating fever. Norfolk in particular had been his gate into the country.
‘What else?’ Edward said. The knight was clearly reluctant to go on, but Edward waved his hand impatiently, looking away in thought as Sir Gilbert spoke once more.
‘The Earl of Oxford has declared for Lancaster, my lord. He has bands of men all over this part of the country, ready to join together and fight, so the bishop told me. If you summon Sir William, my lord, he’ll tell you he heard the same, though from different mouths. Cromer won’t do, Your Highness, as things stand.’
‘Dismissed, Sir Gilbert. And tell my steward to lay a gold angel on your swollen eye. I’m told it can work wonders.’
The knight’s smile grew wide at that and he bowed deeply as he left.
‘That is a blow,’ Edward muttered. ‘Norfolk was the right spot to land – in reach of London, with good men to gather
to my banners. How strange it is, Richard. You know de Vere, Earl Oxford?’
‘Well enough to know he will not be a friend of ours, no matter what we offer. His father was executed for treason, was he not? Do I have the right man?’
‘Yes, that is the one. His older brother too. I do not suppose he feels any gratitude to me for securing his title for him!’ Edward shook his head. He had kept his hair long and it swept over his face like a cowl of mail. ‘If they hadn’t cut his head off, I would have had Worcester flogged for his cursed cruelty. I swear it, Richard, if the enemies he made all stand against me at every port … where will we be then? I should never have made him Constable of England.’
‘Worcester supported you, Brother. The sight of Lancasters enraged him, as I heard it, so he could not abide them to live. You cannot concern yourself with every trial, every fine imposed or criminal beheaded! The decisions were his.’
‘No longer, then. If we survive, Richard, you will be Constable, with the annual stipend and the fine apartments in London. No more of his madness.’
Richard of Gloucester smiled in surprise, genuinely pleased.
‘If we survive, I believe I would enjoy the labour. You honour me, Edward,’ he said. His brother shrugged.
‘It will mean nothing if we cannot land. If not Cromer, then where? The south is hostile country. Not Kent or Somerset, not Sussex, Devon, Cornwall, Bristol – all Lancaster strongholds. My life would not be worth a silver penny if we landed any further south than this.’
‘The city of York itself is said to be against us,’ Richard said glumly, ‘though Northumberland will surely stand with you, God and Percy honour willing. The Percy heir fears Warwick’s brother Montagu too much, with his greedy eyes on his old title.’
‘Perhaps I am not well loved in York, though they owe me loyalty, not love! Oh, to hell with them all. I wanted to come back to the same place I left, to be seen rising once more.’
‘But that gate is closed. So north, then? We have to land somewhere – and our first task will be to march away from it and be seen. You know it. There will be a dozen lords who will support you only if they see it is not a lost cause. Let them believe you can win and they will scramble to stand at your side. Just land and march, Edward. You have sixteen hundred men.’
‘Flemish men,’ Edward muttered.
‘The rest will come.’
‘Or watch as I walk on to the swords of the Neville family,’ Edward said.
‘Well, yes. But try to avoid doing that,’ his brother replied. Edward smiled, staring into his cup. He was caught between sullen anger and amusement at his own failings.
‘Henry of Bolingbroke came back from exile,’ he said at last. Richard raised his head, understanding immediately.
‘And he won back the throne,’ he said.
‘He landed in Ravenspur, on the River Humber, did you know that?’ Edward added, looking into the distance.
‘It would ring out like a bell,’ Richard replied. He met his brother’s gaze and both of them nodded, having reached an understanding and staved off despair for another night. Edward rose and opened the cabin door to the servant waiting outside.
‘Have the captain signal the rest of the fleet. We sail north – for Ravenspur. I will plant my flag there.’
Warwick felt again the weight of armour. Being strapped and tied into the plates held many memories for him, few of which he welcomed. St Albans, with his father; Northampton,
where they had captured Henry for the first time; St Albans again, where he had lost him. Towton, over all, in terror and killing. Some of the plates of his armour had been remade in the years since, while others still showed old marks, polished to shadows on the steel. He looked at the sweat-stained leather layers of his helmet and felt no desire to put it on.
His brother John had gone ahead of him, riding out as soon as news of the fleet had reached London. Derry Brewer had become a ghost, glimpsed only at a distance and then rushing about, his stick clicking on the flags. The spymaster hardly seemed to sleep and must have aged another dozen years. He’d told Warwick he’d exposed the secret lives of men who had been loyal for decades, just to get them out and searching for news. Derry’s spies might not have worn armour, but they were still vital to the cause. The word had gone out to report a landing, anywhere in England. Not a boat could draw up on the shingle all round the coasts without being described to the local sheriff hours later.
Warwick drew his sword with his right hand, inspecting the blade though his squires and servants had checked every piece of his equipment a dozen times. His horse waited in the stables that were part of Westminster Hall, ready to ride west and north. Warwickshire was the seat of his power and his primary title, regardless of all the others Parliament still withheld from him. Those petty men and their disputes would have to wait until he returned. Warwick Castle was where he had kept Edward of York a prisoner. He only wished now that he had killed him then and saved them all years of pain and fear. It griped to see the paths he should have taken, as clear as the road to Warwickshire ahead. He sighed at that, wondering if one day he would look back on this moment and know he should have gone some other way.
He caught sight of his serious expression in the dark glass of the windows and chuckled. A man would not move at all if he wrapped himself in so many doubts and maybes. All he could do was act and know that sometimes he would surely be in the wrong. But to do nothing made him just a cat’s paw for other men, a pawn who sat shivering, not daring to move until he was swept away.
His sword clicked home in its scabbard, a long cavalry blade as wide as three fingers at the base and hard enough to cut through an iron plate. He recalled an old story of King Richard the First, the man they called ‘Lionheart’ for his valour. He had used just such a sword to cut the handle of a steel mace into two pieces. It would do.
Richard Neville said a prayer then, for his father, Earl Salisbury, for his mother buried in Bisham Abbey, for his brothers and his own fate. If Edward of York had a fleet, he also had an army – and neither man nor angels could prevent him landing. It was barely five months since Warwick had come home himself and he was satisfied. With the exception of the needle’s prick of bad luck that had let Edward and Richard of Gloucester escape, he had achieved everything else he had wanted. If he could have gone back a year and said to himself then that they would have King Henry on the throne and England at peace once again, it would have been enough. Perhaps.
He smiled wryly, knowing that he was afraid and trying to deny it. If Edward landed, Warwick would have to face him in battle. The very thought was a cold hand in his innards, squeezing at him. It would be the same for anyone who had seen Edward on the field. Yet Warwick would stand against York, because he had renewed his oaths and chosen a side. And because he had a daughter married to the Lancaster Prince of Wales.
He ran his fingers through his hair, seeing strength and determination reflected back at him in a long glass. He could not remain in London while Edward landed in the north. At such a time, he had to be out in the country, riding and gathering the bands of men he had waiting for his leadership. He feared Edward, of course, though he recalled that courage needed fear or it was worthless. If a man could not see the threat, he was not brave to resist it. Once again his mouth twisted wryly. In which case Edward had made him the bravest man in the world, for Richard Neville, Earl Warwick, was just about terrified of standing against him.
He looked up as the window shuddered under a gale’s breath, suddenly spattered with rain as clouds spread over the city. Warwick clenched his fist, hearing iron and leather creak. He hoped Edward was out there at sea in a storm. The coasts were cruel and ships could be blown on to rocks or made to founder in waves as tall as cathedral spires. Perhaps God would do his work for him, just this one time, and batter the ships to splinters, drowning all the dreams of York.
‘If it can be so, Lord, I would raise chapels in Your glory,’ he muttered aloud, crossing himself and bowing his head. The wind outside seemed to increase, rattling raindrops against the dark glass. Warwick had spent much of his life at sea. Despite himself, he shivered at the thought of men struggling over black waters on such a night.
Edward felt fear rise in his chest and swamp him as if he had been taken by a wave. He could see almost nothing with the moon and stars hidden by thick cloud. The whole world seemed to have become madness, lurching and pulling his ship in every direction. He had grown used to the gentle rise and fall of the prow, but this new motion was entirely
different, each lurch snubbed and interrupted by the chaos of the waves striking the sides. His brother Richard had gone a shade of white that was almost green and yet he could not lean over the stern in such heavy seas, not without being swept away. The captain had sent a man to strap Richard to the mast with quick knots, where he puked down himself and snarled.
In the darkness, the captain of the
Mark Antony
had lost sight of the shore. From that moment, with no glimpse of stars or the moon to navigate, the great fear was that they were being driven in upon the coast, soaring through the darkness on to rocks. To Edward’s disbelief, there were men still up in the shrouds, though it must have been a freezing hell with no shelter from the spray and the storm wind. Their salvation, their lives all lay in spotting the shore before they were broken on it. Those men stayed where they were without complaint, frozen and squinting, turning their heads back and forth to make out any part of the howling darkness that might be land.
Edward hated to be helpless. He and his brother had understood as the storm came in that the best they could do for the crew was to stay out of their way. The sail was brought down and a sea-anchor played out behind them, a raft of planking and old canvas on a cable thick as a man’s arm to give them some purchase on the sea as it went berserk around them. Edward and Richard thought they had seen storms before, but it seemed they had not. The waves rose and rose in thunder, while lightning cracked suddenly overhead, leaving silence and blindness until half the ocean crashed down on to the decks in foam and torrents, snatching men away over the side. In the last of the light, the sons of York could only look at each other in horror and wait it out, numb and useless as the hours passed, praying that the ship would stay
afloat, that the ship would swim and not be smashed on the shore and leave them all as pale fish, on beaches north and south, for strangers to pick over and steal from.
‘Land there, on the port side!’ came a voice from far above, almost drowned by wind and sea. Edward looked up and then ahead, straining to see whatever the sailor had glimpsed. The captain too glanced up, wrenching his steering oars over with two other men, kicking at the deck and straining at the oak handles, roaring in frustration as they fought waves greater in size and weight than the ship itself.